Over the goal-line went Oakes for a touchdown, cheered wildly by the delighted crowd beneath the blue banners. The ball was punted out and caught, and Oakes held it for Ramsdal to lift it with a sure and handsome kick over the crossbar.
“We can’t afford to let them repeat that performance,” said Eliot regretfully.
But the locals, retaining the ball after the kick-off, carried it fifteen yards in a swift dash before they were stopped. Having their courage restored and being spurred on by Merwin, they lined up and lunged into the scrimmage before the visitors were wholly prepared, and a gain of nine yards through center might have developed into another sensational run had not Eliot himself nailed the man with the pigskin.
Cheer after cheer was flung across from the northern side of the field. The visitors on the southern side answered bravely, yet not wholly without a note of distress and alarm.
“Got yez going, me bhoy,” grinned Barney Carney into the face of Ben Stone. “Oi belave it’s our turrun now.”
He was not the only one who believed this; the whole team believed it. And when a body of contestants in any game get the idea that they are bound to succeed, it is doubly difficult to stop them. The Clearporters had talked it over; they had decided that the left wing of the visitors was stronger than the right. Stoker had told them that Spotty Davis was “soft as mush.” Nevertheless, they were crafty enough not to betray immediately their plan to batter at that right end, and by shifting their movements rapidly, they kept their opponents guessing. Round Davis and through the line between him and Crane they occasionally shot a runner for good gains, which carried them on again and again just when it seemed that they had been checked.
Eliot entreated Davis; he begged, and then he scolded. Spotty, feeling the weight of the battering hurled upon him, swiftly lost heart; and when in a sort of blind despair he finally tackled a runner head on, he was the one who remained stretched on the hard ground after the ball was down.
“Come, Davis—come,” called Eliot, “get up and get into the game. For goodness’ sake, take a brace!”
Spotty groaned dolefully. “I can’t,” he whimpered, with a choke in his voice. “I can’t; I’m done up.”
Roger turned toward Winton, who lifted his hand in a signal, to which the Oakdale captain replied with a nod. Walker, Stone’s seatmate at school, was promptly sent out by the coach; and the little fellow came running without hesitation, trembling with excitement, delighted because he was to have a chance in the game.